She stood at the window, rolling the honeyed wine in her mouth. The setting sun painted the whole island in striking washes of orange and violet, interspersed with the occasional yellow flare of a lantern set out against the coming twilight. Beautiful though it was, even in a dream, she could not stay. If she followed her hunch, and understood the dream to draw on the universe of the movie, she would have no way off the island until after Turner had finished and delivered the commission from that afternoon.
On returning from town, she met with the family she'd been set down in. The mother was a waste, keeping to her chaise and fidgeting incessantly with some useless piece of needlework or other, surrounded by ridiculous trinkets and lace. She appeared to have no sense or education, telling old and harmless gossip and repeating herself every so often without noticing it or her listener's reaction. The mother sighed often that evening of Mary Brigid's brother in London, and younger sister, fallen to a fever the previous summer. And the father, exactly as he had been in the morning, radiating hatred from behind the newspaper. She heard through Felicity that he had managed to trouble both upstairs maids already, though it was a business day. She was convinced the whole family was crazy.
She had no way of knowing how long this dream would last, but it was clear by now she could not count on pulling herself out of this one. Therefore, she must lay plans as if she would be here some weeks, and get what adventure out of it she could. The first thing to do would be to create her persona. It wouldn't do to be merely her waking self, and the figure she'd been handed at the outset wasn't favorable either. In the rising face of the full moon she found a name. Morgan: fine but unremarkable, suitable for either sex and simple enough to remember.
Felicity announced her presence with humming and the soft tap of her low heels across the wide floors. Morgan turned from the window, trying the name on for size.
"Felicity my dear, what do you think of Morgan Archer?"
Felicity lay her bundle on the trunk at the foot of the bed, gesturing for the two maids following to do the same. "Can't say that I know him, Miss."
"Ah. No, I meant for myself. I rather like it."
"Well Miss, I don't know, but it does seem to have a fine ring to it."
"Not too fine, I hope? Nothing too remarkable?"
One of the younger maids spoke: "If I may, Miss, I knew two by name of Morgan back home, and three since I come to Port Royal with my mum."
"Men or women?"
"One here is a woman, and one back home, though that one, she said it different, more like Morgane, as in stories."
"Good, good. Thank you my dear. And your names were…?"
"Jane, Miss, and this my sister, Emily."
"Oh, please call me Morgan, all of you, if you would. I need to get used to it in any case."
The maids giggled and began lighting candles against the advancing evening. Morgan finished the remainder of the wine and started to dig through the pile of old clothing. Getting off the island would mean stowing away on one of two possible pirate vessels. To survive, she needed not only a name, but a whole persona. She needed clothes, equipment, a history and a purpose, and she needed to step into her role as soon as possible – she would be meeting with Turner again before midnight.
*
Morgan counted herself lucky, striding through the narrow streets with Felicity at her side, that there had even been enough in the pile to outfit them both. Tomorrow morning they could take time to alter and mend, replacing buttons and adjusting length as needed, but tonight, her trousers were tacked to her shirt and the whole ensemble cinched with a moth-eaten scarf. The shoes were the bigger problem, distinctly uncomfortable and suited only for soft city life. Felicity wore her own brown shoes with her man's dress, grumbling in low tones and tugging at her knit cap every ten paces. Morgan had tried to talk her out of coming, but she was stubborn, insisting she needed an escort. She hadn't been able to button her trousers all the way, and she held the too-large greatcoat around her like one ill, but she walked on.
Light from the forge poured into the street, and in the window sat the horseshoe, sign that all was well. Morgan knocked twice at the wicket, scanning the street as casually as she could manage. Down the alley a pair of drunks stumbled from the tavern, but they weren't traveling or even looking in her direction. She turned when she heard the bar slide away, and bit back a grin when Turner didn't recognize them at first. She produced from her waistcoat the orange she'd promised earlier as a sign of good faith, watching his face as he took it from her open palm.
*
Turner listened for the snores of his master in the cellar, and slid a crate of ingots just far enough to block the door, sealing the last opening on the ground floor of the shop. He picked up a third stool, and joined the women at the rough table. Felicity poured him a mug of tea and pulled off the cap that had itched from the moment she'd put it on.
"You're welcome to train with me, but I won't do it without your name. And I won't start the sword either."
"Morgan Archer." She held him in a level stare, reading the suspicion rising in umber eyes.
"I want to know why you wouldn't give me your name earlier. I don't deal with liars. What's your real name?"
"Look, Turner. I came here and I was given a name. It didn't fit, you understand? I take this one instead, it suits me better. You won't find out anything of my character by knowing it, that person isn't me."
Felicity spoke up, "I vouch for my mistress, that should be enough. Her family is irrelevant."
"And what do I tell the authorities when they come looking for a runaway?"
"You tell them you dealt with Archer, which you are."
"I won't do business without knowing who I deal with."
"And your master, what does he say to his apprentice who thinks so much of himself?" Felicity challenged, exchanging a look with her mistress before continuing. "The name of Benjamin Michaels mean anything to you?"
"Of course, the tradesmaster, with the crazy -"
Morgan put her mug down firmly, letting the tea splash over the wooden side. She lifted her chin a tiny margin and spun the lie. "Anything crazy about me was his own doing, calling that quack with his leeches and laudanum. My own sister died of him and they called it God's will. But for my good servant I might have followed her. Now I am well, they do not know me, and my father sends me to England. He would marry me from my brother's house to some merchant, he has arranged it all by post already. I will not go."
"What then? Why do you come to me?" He squinted at her and lowered his voice. "I cannot sell you the blade that will kill your father."
"I don't plan to kill him. I'm going to the Americas on one of his own ships. Virginia or the Rogue's Island I hear tell of."
Turner dropped his eyes and took a long drink of the tea. "What manner of blade do you require then, Miss Archer?"